The Tripe In Ena's Handbag Is Not For Thee: Minnie Caldwell's Cat, Yesterday

It being not quite three strikes shy of the high time of it, down there on Blinko's Jetty, off the San Bastinado Freeway and then some, Donald Trump is and was having some serious issues with a corduroy windsock and a tame steeplejack named Jerzy Kandinsky (no relation).

But you don't wanna know about all that. What you do wanna know about is hardly a subject fit for the table of a fine Thanksgiving Thursday, here on Turgenev's Ranch, out in Hangover County, way up in the middle of Oklahoma. And that's way up, down out in there, baby.

For, what for can a boy with a copper ladle and a used tuxedo do for to have not less than a square meal out of, huh? That's what you wanna know, right?

Right. And here's the rub, as the girls used to say to the washed-up Insurance guys way out at Delgado's Place, up at Oak Pines, where they had that old Roundhouse at, before it got busted in the Fall of '77, when Sheriff Muffdiver set in train a series of purges. And then some. With fries. Pumpernickel toast wouldn't figure outside of this particular equation, either.

Besides, Arizona in the Fall it ain't. Squaw Rectum, Idaho, it may be. Or Alchemist's Tibia, South Dakota. After a manner of saying, that is.

Meanwhile, back on topic, Donald Trump is, frankly, a bit of a mess, out there, at his ranch, in West Wilberforce, at the Orange Grove, where he likes to vacation. The problem? He's lost his toupee.

It seems that, when he retired last night, he put the darling creature out in the bamboo grove as is of normalcy. But, when he emerges from the infinitely fine-gauze luxury mosquito net this afternoon, he ventures out to the bamboo grove, and the toupee is, not to put too fine a point on it, not there any more.

"Oh whoa! Oh woe is me!" cries Donald Trump. "For where oh where can my poor toupee be? Has he been snatched away from my bosoms during the night by person or persons unknown, and is he to be held ransom in some dreadful hideaway by hoods in balaclavas who would not think nothing of taking a scissor to him and sending me dreadful snippets, in order to get me to vouchsafe a serious wad of dough, the quicker to secure the release of my darling?

"What if I ne'er espy his bizarre gingerness ever ever again, which is my most worst fear and nightmares both? Oh what shall I do?"

What Donald Trump does do, is he does ring on the blower his neighbours, who - ever so conveniently, in view of the prolix and far from perfunctory nature of the title of this news article - are none other than the following types who also live in the vicinity of West Wilberforce, at the Orange Grove:

Robert Pattinson

Kristen Stewart

Vanessa Hudgens

Now these types reside at the old Sputum Ranch, where McMichaelson used to keep his Prime Porcupine Steers. But they don't reckon on Porcupine Steers, or any kind of Steers, for that matter. And so they live in an astrobubble out in the old duck pastures. But hey, who's countin'? Ain't no discounts on a mess of polk salad down at Dennistoun's Diner in this perticlar neck o' the woods, astrobubble with thermonuclear plumbing or no astrobubble with haemoglobin wainscottings.

But, hey, you folks'll be a-hankerin' to hear what Donald Trump says, on the blower, to these types what is living out at the old Sputum Ranch. Well, he says "Help! Help! My teepee is a-missing, feared dead, snatched by balaclavas in hoods unbeknown to me as I lay couchant within a luxury mosquito net, and I am as one bereft, forlorn and rent asunder, for I am surely lost without it!"

And in hardly no time - or at least, in hardly less time than it would take if there were no time to hardly take less time than, in a difficult and sorely trying circumstance - the aforementioned astrobubble types have acted. Which, for these types, is a first. But they do it.

Which is a kind of a shame, because Chief Buffalo Spoor, from the local branch of the Havahoe tribe, who, besides being an authority on lawn maintenance and cucumber cultivars, is also pretty swift at running down a missing teepee - the Chief, I say, is pretty nonplussed when he discovers that it is a toupee that is, as it were, hors de combat, and not a teepee that has gone native.

So, more time is wasted, and the Chief is sent on his way with a signed photograph of the wig and a copy of the Robert Pattinson Songbook. And the band of brothers - for that is, after all this strife and discrepancy, what the types and Donald Trump are starting to feel like - realise that all they can do is set off on a quest.

And they all go, with their worldly goods wrapped up in their several spotted handkerchiefs (apart from Vanessa, that is, for she has only an old neckerchief, in tan, left behind by old McMichaelson's senior cowpoke, which must be made to suffice). They set off, through the bamboo grove, in search of the missing toupee.

And we wish them every success.

Now you might be thinking, now. "Now", you might be thinking, "now, this is a pretty kettle of fish, and quite enough to be getting along with for now."

But you'd be wrong. For, across the valley, out at the old Hughie Green Memorial Ranch, there's fresh trouble a-brewing. Like a Kentucky White Goods Delivery Guy, as old Granfeathers Crump would have said whilst he was out on the veranda of an evening, whittlin', chewin' up his baccy, and finishin' up that balsawood sculpture of the lynchin' out at the McMurdo Place. That's what old Granfeathers Crump woulda said, that kinda thing is just what he'd say. If he existed, which he don't. Ain't fiction a killer?

So anyways, not to let the matter rest, there they are, ways across the valley, there, at the Hughie Green Memorial Ranch. There's these characters, all a-settin' there:

Zac Efron

Sandra Bullock

Ena Sharples

Postman Pat

And also, there's these bodies present, if far from what we might term correct:

Arnold Schwarzenegger

Pam Shriver

Billie Jean King

And what, you are a-askin', what are these folks all up to, that it might justify such a palaver as this extravagant exercise in literary taradiddle, fustian, bravado and flim-flam?

Not to mention tomfoolery and gibberish.

Well, comes back the answer, clear as Tennessee Drainwater, and here is what transpireth.

Says Zac Efron to Ena Sharples, "Say, baby, it ain't right what Arnold is up to, hittin' on that Billie Jean chick, when he's got little Pam tucked up at home."

And Ena Sharples, she says, "Hey up, young feller. We'll have four milk stouts afore we decides what's out of order and what isn't. There's a pound of tripe in me handbag and it's not for Minnie Caldwell's cat."

And, as if that were not fine and dandy enough, for the season, why, in jumps Postman Pat, with, "Eh, Sandra, aye, let's 'ave a glass o'stout wi' Ena an' Zac, and mebbes wur can all sort summat out regardin' that rum bugger Arnold. Poor old Pam's gunna cop it reet bad if wur don't do summat."

To which Sandra Bullock (for it is she) is moved to reply, "Fucken tennis players is all lesbians anyhow. That Arnold's wasted on t'like o' yon. 'E could gie me one any day o' t'week could that big randy get of a bastard."